Boxed Set
by BelleEpoque17
Summary: Series of DoctorDonna one-shots; sometimes shippy but never anything particularly overt. Mostly written during extreme bouts of melancholy
1. Chapter 1

1. Melting Away - The Fires of Pompeii

They sit in the Tardis opposite each other - he tinkering with some gadget that doesn't really need fixing, and she slumped on the jumpseat, obviously deep in thought. Every few minutes he glances up at her above the rims of his spectacles, just to make sure she hasn't melted away into sadness.

It's unfortunate that her first proper trip in the Tardis just happened to end in genocide. From what he's seen of her so far, he's not sure she'll be able to take it. She might be able to bluster her way past earthly sceptics, but no resident of earth has witnessed the haunted look the Doctor caught in her eyes as they tried to settle back into 'normal life' - such as it was.

It isn't as if she's delicate. Volcanoes, escape pods, and a terrific amount of running didn't faze _her_. But now, only just now, he's witnessing the gentle side of her, the tearful broken Donna that weeps not only for the whole city but also for the one child she tried to save. That's the main reason he's so worried - the look on her face when the little boy was snatched away was almost too much to bear. Laws of space and time? Those could be bent if only to dry Donna Noble's tears.

And he doesn't want her to go, not at all, but he has such a propensity for getting into trouble of the worst sort that he fears he wouldn't be able to steer them around the bad days. And then she might cry again, and ask to go home. Better later than right away, he thinks a little selfishly, and glances up at her again. Well, she hasn't melted yet. Quietly he studies her, the tools in his hands falling idle into his lap.

Her eyes are downcast, her chin buried into the blanket she's got wrapped around her (no he wasn't going to turn the heat up), and her feet tucked under her much like a child afraid of monsters under the bed. And she looks like a child, and yet so much older than other companions. Donna, he realises, has already seen much of the world. Resilient nonetheless, she carries her jaunty response to all the lemons she's been tossed out to the boundaries of the universe.

It's been a day since Pompeii, a full 24-hour cycle unmarked by celestial movement as they huddle hollowly in the Tardis. Immediately afterward, he'd taken her to Lethe, a gorgeous sworl of violet stardust, and they'd forgotten their troubles for a while as they sat in the doorway, dangling their feet off the side as if they were wading through galaxies, sending tiny ripples out like undetected signals of their presences.

But even Lethe could not erase the memories forever. He blinks slowly as he continues to study her, watching as her eyelashes likewise sink down upon her cheeks as drowsiness pulls them lower like the force of gravity. If only he could let her sleep, but she would not appreciate being left on the narrow jumpseat. He should wake her and offer a goodnight, giving her the decision to get up and go to bed.

The Tardis is so quiet as it hovers in the vortex that his footfalls on the metal floor sound like explosions. But Donna continues to nod, her lips parting a little as her breathing deepens. What a crime to wake her, but it must be done.

"Donna," he says, not too near her ear lest he frighten or offend her. There's a good psychological reason for those boundaries, he knows, but he'll let them wear off with time - what time they have - and worry about it later.

At the sound of her name, she sighs and shifts languidly, testing the muscles worn to dull aching by the exertion required to destroy a city. Loathe to open her eyes, she turns her head in the direction of his voice, and murmurs thickly, "What is it, Spaceman?"

He's not reviling that nickname as he once did. The name suits her - if that made sense - the choice of name she gave him suits her. No, it doesn't make sense. He pushes the fleeting thoughts away and replies. "Bedtime? It's been a long day."

"All days are the same length, you idiot," she laughs briefly, fondly, opening her eyes at last. She stretches and then grabs for the blanket when it starts to slide off. A yawn follows.

"You're very tired. You'd be more comfortable in your own bed. That's the only reason I woke you - didn't think you'd appreciate waking up here next morning." He smiles at her, still not comfortable with giving her a real one, but a friendly one, at least. It feels ungrateful to hold his defences after what she's done for him in so short a time, but perhaps it's justified as Donna does not fully trust him, either. It's new for him - people with nothing on their conscience usually trust him right off.

Oh, but there is something on her conscience, he reminds himself as she stands and gathers up the blanket round herself like a queen's robe. So many deaths already - the Racnoss, her fiance, Stacey, the Matron, and now the people of Pompeii - no wonder she shows such uncharacteristic restraint around him. Death follows him everywhere, be it indirect or horrifically purposeful, and when such destruction is accompanied by vows of peace, it's no wonder Donna can't make up her mind about him.

"Are you all right?" he blurts; he stops her before she can walk away.

She'll want to go home, he knows. Maybe not today - at least, she won't say it today - but within a week she'll ask. He's only grateful he hasn't had time to get too attached.

Then again, perhaps he has underestimated her. Donna looks at him, sees the resignation and sadness and weariness etched into his features, and puts her arms around him, all sympathy and familial care. The Doctor is startled by the revelation that Donna _feels like family_ - a vibe he never expected from her, and hasn't received from a companion in a long time. She doesn't draw out the embrace but it's enough. Her lips tip in a melancholy, empathetic smile - _I feel your pain, Martian-not-from-Mars_. She's not telepathic but her eyes convey more than words could. He even picks up on that tiny bit of sarcasm.

As she turns to leave for her bedroom - the initial discovery of which delighted her immensely ("It's like a proper house!") - she casts him another smile over her shoulder, a more playful one, because she's in the Tardis and _welcome aboard_.

All right, so Donna Noble won't be melting away any time soon. She's obviously made of tougher stuff than he guessed. Mostly, he's relieved, because it won't mean another goodbye so soon, but he's also really, _really_ overjoyed because it seems there is nothing this woman can't do, and he likes to have that kind of person by his side.


	2. Chapter 2

Music - Midnight

She fell asleep, but she could still hear it in her mind - the repetitive, canned music forever echoing through the huge glass-domed room. At first she hadn't even noticed it. The novelty of sunbathing on a diamond planet completely distracted her, as did the awful purple phone she talked to the Doctor on.

The phone should have been her first clue that something sinister was afoot. It was purple - and looked like a refurbished peice of junk from the eighties with the cord taken out so it wouldn't interfere with intergalactic signals or some other such nonsense. You can't trust an establishment that uses glorified yard sale castoffs.

But the music - it just never stopped. It wound a groove in her brain, an endless tuneless track that embedded itself in her thoughts, and as she drifted off to sleep she attempted absently and half-heartedly to replace it with a more familiar melody. The attempt failed before it even began, because she surrendered to dreamland in seconds, perhaps a side effect of the soothing, sanitised environment.

In her dreams the music ran rampant into chaos, a jumble of noisy dissonant strains all competing, hurtling round the groove, neck-and-neck and reckless. It was a cacaphony of broken violins, pounding drums, and nails on a chalkboard. It made her head spin and her dreams tilt sideways.

When she awoke, it ceased suddenly, replaced at once by the cool, rhythmic, barely noticeable beats that permeated the building. It was so cheesy; she wrinkled her nose in distaste, wondering what had startled her into consciousness, and getting her answer when a voice blared out of a hidden speaker somewhere.

It marched through unnecessary preliminaries, like the overly-informative faces in the Library had done, before announcing that there had been a problem on the tour and the bus would be returning late. Donna wasn't worried; like the Doctor said, what was there to fear on a planet called Midnight? She would simply have to find new ways to pass the time until he got back. Delays happened all the time.

After the voice had run through its tiresome courtesies, the music quietly crept on again. This time Donna was determined not to fall asleep, for though she did not remember her dreams, she had a curious recollection of spinning and falling, of total loss of gravity and utter confusion. Something she ate or drank? No telling what might have been in the refreshments - some alien allergen or creepy bacterial life form at worst, too much alcohol at best.

But despite good intentions, sleep again claimed her within an hour. This time her dreams were, at first listen, silent. Gradually, though, the same soft ambient music from the real world pressed close on her mind, and she lay motionless in the lethal sunlight, a specimen trapped under feet of glass, coldly observed by distant eyes in distant stars peering down at the glittering planet. Donna Noble, human, trapped in a song. A song stuck in her head. Flipped the whole phrase on end, turning it frighteningly literal.

At the close of another hour, the voice came again, and Donna woke, but could not escape her own head. She held her eyes closed, or something held them for her, and whiteness expanded behind her eyelids while the music played on and on and on and on. The announcement that the rescue vehicle was on its return trip registered vaguely but did not compute to her captive brain. Panic overcame her when she discovered that she couldn't move her own left foot. Silently she lay screaming, thrashing at the bonds that paralysed her.

"Get it out of my head!" she sobbed soundlessly. With a pop, the music ceased and her eyes flew open.

The music accompanied her into waking. Mercifully, it was cut off once more when the voice on the speaker proclaimed to all life forms in the building that the rescue vehicle had returned. All memory of her terrifying experience fled as Donna caught sight of the Doctor. At first she was relieved, without knowing why or recalling any detail of her dreams. But then she saw his face, a mirror of her own underlying fear and trauma, and her smile fell. They reached out to each other, and she held onto him, an anchor amid the dizzying whirl of unremembered nightmares.

Terror was radiating off him like waves; she could feel the tension in his shoulders as her fingers drifted over the muscles in a tight hug. Again, she was very frightened, but only of the idea that there was something out there that could affect her Doctor like this. The warmth of her concern rejuvenated them both. The physical and psychological exhaustion fell from both of them as they clasped each other close. A triple heartbeat drowned out the rhythm of the music and the echo of the voices.

Back on the Tardis it was too silent. But Donna and the Doctor were afraid to fill it. They watched each other warily, calculating words to say based on the body language of the other. Words were gone for the Doctor; Donna could not bear silence. It made her head feel like it was collapsing in on itself, vacuumed into a soundless space bigger-on-the-inside.

Cautious as a preying cat, she crept around the console, keeping one eye always on the Doctor, who was lost in his own world trying to compose speeches and continually failing. Here was something she knew how to do - instinctively, it seemed. A flick of this switch, a button here, a dial there. Something classical, possibly from far in her future but still as lovely as a Mozart or a Tchaikovsky, drifted sweetly through the Tardis. The Doctor's head snapped up as soon as he was aware of the shift of atmosphere.

"Donna?" he managed, one inquisitive word. The effort nearly drained him.

She held out her hands to him. He took them and she pulled him to her gently, placing her chin on his shoulder and waiting until she felt him relax. They swayed in one place, just being close and not speaking, until the song ended and another began. Donna didn't know this one either, but apparently the Doctor did. He began murmuring the lyrics along, too soft and low to follow the melody, but keeping up with the languid tempo. It sounded like English; the syllables and sounds were right, but they ran together in foreign combinations that didn't convey so much of a particular meaning as a deep emotion.

Donna shivered. The song changed again. It was loud and raucously cheery; they both jumped, startled, and stared at each other in wide-eyed astonishment. Then the Doctor cracked a smile, and Donna repressed a smirk. In an instant they were chuckling, and finally laughing until their limbs grew weak and they collapsed to the floor in helpless merriment. It wasn't true joy, not yet, but the laughter was like therapy. The song triumphantly rang in a return to normality.


	3. Chapter 3

If none of it had ever happened, he thinks he might make good on some things he had in mind. It's a lonely thought, and he doesn't have the time anymore to pursue it, because soon he won't be her Spaceman anymore and maybe won't love her anymore, not with the real dual regret and joy he does now, but with something softer, like a quietly amused, tolerant remembrance of a silly childhood notion.

He doesn't feel childish, yet at the same time he does, and very old as well. He thought he had so much time - he'd seen three companions come and go, and countless deaths and now two marriages. And he watches sadly as she laughs with delight, clad in white and tulle and wearing a star on her finger. There are stars in her eyes, too, and stars in her mind, but she doesn't know. Those stars are blotted out, no longer reflected when she looks in the mirror, just letters backwards spelling nonsense.

Thinking isn't good for him. He could get lost in all the many solitary thoughts that teem through his head. His life had so many what ifs, so many missed opportunities, so many alternate universe spun out from around him like a widening web, that standing still just one moment could send him off on a wild goose chase of a happy ending. For himself, selfishly, for once, instead of carrying on, seeking happiness elsewhere that likewise faded away with the passing of time or life.

The possibilities were numerous as the very stars, even when confined only to and around her, the last he held in his heart, the last to tear it asunder with something so guileless as happiness. That she was happy, and did not know, made him ache. That she was happy was his only design, and his only lasting happiness too. To be selfish, to pursue a doubtful whim less solid and assured, would be dangerous for them both. Better to leave things as they were, and the two of them would together enter new lives and new joys, each unaware of the other.

Just one more lonely thought before he turned away. Of making good on things he had in mind - she never got to see that beach he promised her. Now he would not be the one to take her, but it didn't matter. The idea of leaving something undone that could have been accomplished those last few moments plagued him. The money and tickets were procured, hidden away for them to find or be given, one last brilliant destination for Donna by his doing. Perhaps it was not time and space, but he knew she would like to travel.

So onwards he went from there, faces lingering in his mind, an eager 'allons-y' unuttered, left for someone else's taking, because he did not want to go.


	4. Chapter 4

They had a long discussion about beauty as they sat with their knees drawn up under their chins, only half attentive to the view before them, the edge of the golden cliff, and the sunset lighting everything afire. He alluded to her hair, redder than ever as it caught the sun's rays.

"See, I think that's beautiful," he explained, wishing he had a mirror on hand to show her.

"It's a broad term," she argued, reminding him that he had deemed the rare species of intergalactic blowfish beautiful as well. "Someone says 'beauty' and you think flowers or a woman or jewels. Someone says 'beautiful' and you think of a song or a painting or a mountain. Someone says 'beaut' and you think of a car." She smirked at him. "Or maybe a Tardis."

"I say beautiful," he immediately returned, "and I think of something pure, untainted, wholesome and honest in expression, artless or excellent."

"My hair," she said sceptically, waving a hand in the direction of her smooth locks. "Honest in expression?"

"Well, you haven't coloured it, as some might. You're not ashamed to be ginger."

"It's just my hair!"

"It's just your hair," he conceded, nodding. "It was just an example. I do think it's beautiful. It's well kept, tidy, and flattering. I loved Rose and Martha's hair, too. Like I said, it was just an example."

"How about something that fits your definition of beauty better?" she asked. "What would that be?"

He had to think for a moment, with his feet crossed under him like a little child's. "As you mentioned, a song, or a painting, or a woman. I think you're beautiful, Donna."

She passed the compliment by, smiling to show that she thought he was in jest. "I'm pretty, maybe," she said. "But don't you dare try to flatter me."

"Not flattery," was his earnest reply. "You are physically beautiful of course, but your compassionate heart, so tender towards anyone no matter how underserving, your obstinate cheerfulness, your complete lack of conceit, are what recommend you most."

Donna was silent for some time. "People talk about inner beauty," she said at last. "But it's more like something you can only wish for, really just an abstract concept, maybe even just a theory for all the importance they really give it. I never thought about - I never really tried to get inner beauty, you know? You can't really shop for it like you can external beauty, with makeup and clothes and hair products and things."

"I think it's inherent," he replied. "Sometimes it takes a little work to develop it, but some people are just born with the capacity to be truly, deeply beautiful."

"It doesn't seem right, talking about me like that," she said with a blush. "I'm the most ordinary of people, and if you knew me just a couple years ago, you wouldn't say I was beautiful at all. Yeah, I was thinner," she said a little regretfully, "But I was really a nasty person." This said with the wrinkling of her nose in disgust at the thought of her own behaviour. "I was awful to Mum, rude, defensive, and totally unaware of just how bad I was. How can you say that it's inherent?"

"You forget, I met you on your wedding day, Donna," he said, arching an eyebrow at her. "You slapped me at least three times, called me all manner of unflattering names, and got me into trouble with a giant spider."

Donna laughed. "I can't forget that! I'm shocked that you asked me to travel with you after all that."

He smiled a mysterious smile at her. "Maybe I saw something nobody else did," he said. "Maybe I saw the rude ginger bride -"

Donna made a noise of protest at this description of her.

"-But I also saw the woman who didn't want me to kill a spider's babies, the woman who told me to find someone to take care of me because she knew I wouldn't do it myself, the woman vainly fighting for personal security against the constant attacks of her mother, friends, and even her fiance."

Again, Donna was silent, just taking all this in.

The Doctor leaned back, watching the colours play across the sky as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon. He had given her plenty to think about, and while he knew she wouldn't accept all that he had said, perhaps she would begin to think better of herself.

"Personally, I find that I value beauty - on the purely visual level - very little. There's something to be said, of course, about a rainbow of stars or an untouched alien landscape, but it's more the emotions it stirs in me, the memories and hopes and awe, than the grandeur of the colours or the size or anything like that. I find something beautiful because I see what it could become, or what it has already become, a fascinating journey from lesser into greater and purer."

"You're talking very broadly now. You've lumped me in the same category as some planet."

"There's a lot of beauty in the universe, Donna." He smiled at her again, gently and affectionately. "Sometimes you just have to be looking."

Donna wrapped her arms around her knees, huddling in a thoughtful, vulnerable position that communicated she didn't wish to be complimented just then. The problem with his high praise of her was that it made her feel she didn't deserve it. She thought if he could see all that she had said and done or even thought that he wouldn't think her 'brilliant' but perhaps just 'a little better for having woken up to the world.'

He could practically hear her thoughts. He could have read them like a stolen letter if he wanted to, but of course she would never trust him again if he did. "Like I said, Donna," he said, bending to try to catch her eyes, which were downcast and hidden by a sweep of red fringe. "Like I said, it's the idea of a journey, to greater and purer, that is beautiful."

"How do you know if something has gotten as beautiful as it ever can get?" she asked, looking not at him but at the grains of sand beneath her toes. A wispy spider scurried out from under a rock and regarded them warily. She shooed it away from her. "Doesn't even understand," she murmured, glancing at him. "Doesn't know I just spared its life. What's the point?"

"Obviously I can't convince you just how much I think you deserve," he said. "You're determined to think very poorly of yourself, on the basis that you know yourself too well to be worthy of any praise. I'm sorry for that. I think, if I measured you by good intentions alone, you'd break the scale."

This earned a chuckle. "I'm sorry, as well, that I frustrate you so," she said. "You're right; I try the best I can, and I mean well most of the time, so if it will make you happy I'll try very hard to have a higher opinion of myself."

"Excellent," he exclaimed, feeling that he'd won this one battle, even if not yet the whole war. They grinned at each other, conspiratorial, then looked out once more at the burning glow of the desert sunset. The Doctor waved his hand in a general sweep of the landscape. "Now that," he declared, "Is fundamentally beautiful."

"Better than the Grand Canyon," she agreed.

"It's actually modeled after the Grand Canyon," he said, launching himself into a long explanation, and missing Donna's amused little smile and tiny eye-roll. "When the first colonists began the terraforming process, just a little over a hundred years ago..."


	5. Chapter 5

There's never been lipstick in this deserted corner of the Earth before, he thought to himself absently. And certainly not any people. And certainly not any aliens. So they were breaking a lot of records all at once.

"What do we need my lipstick for, anyway?" Donna demanded as she rummaged around in her purse. She was dressed to the nines, prepared for the ambassador's ball in Lel but not for a detour to prehistoric North America. The blue really suited her but he figured it wasn't the time to make any comments.

"I don't pretend to know anything about cosmetics, Donna," he said rather impatiently, "But apparently something in that particular brand of -"

"Here you go. Caramel Latte," she supplied, holding it out to him.

He took it and continued. "-that particular brand repels the giant cat that's been tracking us down."

"It's L'Oreal," she told him, unhelpfully.

The Doctor was too busy marking the perimeter of their little clearing with the insufficient tube of lipstick to bother answering. It ran out halfway, and they still had to find a way to get back to the Tardis. "Have you got another one?" he asked.

"What?" Donna was not pleased. "You used it all up?"

"Would you prefer being eaten in three bites?" he retorted, and she reluctantly handed over a second tube. This one was mostly unused, so there was plenty left over even after he closed the circle. He held it out to her, but she just looked at it in distaste. It was caked with dirt and foliage, and if he thought she was going to use that on her mouth then he was mistaken.

"Couldn't we just wave it around at him if he gets close?" she said, crossing her arms. "I don't see why you had to make a lipstick fence. And now, we're stuck in this little circle, miles away from the Tardis, and late for the ambassador's ball!"

He didn't think it wise to remind her that he's got a time machine, nor that the Tardis was just a few metres back.

"And now I'm a mess!" she continued, looking down at the soiled hem of her beautiful gown. There were also bits of leaf stuck in her hair, but again he knew better than to say anything. "It's all because you were so adamant that you couldn't possibly have landed us in the wrong place, much less the wrong time, that you insisted we climb through a forest in search of the bleeding palace!"

"Lel's forests are strikingly similar to Southern Canada!" he argued. "Yes, I thought there was a good possibility that we were in the wrong place, but I like to be optimistic! We might have landed in the ambassador's garden, you know. That's why I suggested we continue on for a bit."

"Does this look like a garden to you?" Donna shouted, gesturing around at the expanse of untamed plant life. "Does the ambassador commonly keep mammoth-size hyaenas on his property?"

"Actually, it's a lynx," he said. "There's quite a difference. Hyaenas are native to Africa and are part of the canine family, while lynxes -"

"Do I look like I care?" she bellowed. "The point is, we're on the wrong flipping planet, cut off from the Tardis, being chased by a giant cat, who apparently doesn't like my lipstick!" She seethed. "What's wrong with my lipstick, anyway?"

"You know, it might actually be your perfume, now that I think about it," he mused. "Have you got a bottle of that on hand?" He eyed her voluminous handbag. He often suspected it was bigger on the inside.

At any rate, it was the wrong suggestion to make, because Donna drew herself up for a well-aimed smack. "It's Chanel!" she shrieked. "I'm not letting you use it on some overgrown house cat!"

He decided to let the matter drop. Even if he couldn't wield his own bottle of highly expensive pepper spray, he would at least be safe as long as he stayed close to Donna. Not too close, though. She was wearing enough perfume to knock a man flat if he got within a metre of her.


	6. Chapter 6

The two of them both hate Christmas.

But they sit in the cosy library, his absolute favourite room in the Tardis, and sip slowly at mugs of tea from China. His arm is around her shoulders; her head nestles against him, and her legs, stretched out straight, cross over his. It's not Christmas, they're just cuddling on the 25th. Because they both happened to want a cuddle just then.

It's the first time Donna's dislike of the holiday is born out of loss. To a certain extent, it's the memory of Lance and everything about him and them that failed. On a deeper level, it's the residual regret of turning down the Doctor that first time. But most of all, and worst, it's her dad, gone now, the dearest man she'd ever had in her life, more precious even than her sweet old gramps and far more precious than the Doctor could ever be. That's the pain that burrows deep like a splinter. It hurts vaguely all the time, like a constant dull throb, but when she touches it, the most feather light of touches, it's agonising.

She hates Christmas. But at least she's not bitter.

The Doctor, of course, sighs and thinks of Rose, of dead people and lost friends, people that truly strove for peace on earth. And time lord or no, these sorts of things weigh heavily upon two hearts, time lord always fine invincible defense mechanism or no. He and Donna have both lost, at high cost and heartbreak to spare, so they cuddle companionably on a mutually disliked day of memory, just holding each other up.


End file.
